


Just a Side Character

by QueenCamellia



Series: The Unwritten Stories [1]
Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Just Monika, Meta, doki doki from monika's pov, ish, like srsly we know so little of her interests, lots of fancanons to elaborate on her character, lots of self introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:45:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCamellia/pseuds/QueenCamellia
Summary: How do you live knowing you’re the side character in somebody else’s story?If she couldn’t be the hero...then she would become the villain.DDLC, told from Monika’s perspective.





	1. Awakening

I became aware that I was a game character on the first of May.

Before that, I had gone through the usual routine of living in accordance to my parents’ wishes. I played tennis, a “respectable sport,” to hone my instincts and body. I volunteered to be class representative throughout my elementary school and middle school years, regardless of the people who whispered about my “goody-two-shoes” act behind my back. I dyed my hair brown: the color was  _ just _ unusual enough to be noticed, but not so unusual to be punished. I attended cram school after school and on the weekends to ensure my grades wouldn’t fall behind, and I frequently visited the library to check out classic novels that’d expand my knowledge.

Eventually, I had accumulated a reputation of “smart, beautiful, confident, and athletic.” When I first heard about my illustrious reputation, I couldn’t help but laugh: I had done it! Through my constant efforts to strive towards perfection, I had become a girl that everyone aspired to be. If I continued along this path, I’d eventually be accepted to a high-ranked college. Maybe, just  _ maybe, _ I’d be able to find somebody special to treasure. (Shoujo manga, although impractical, had always been my guilty pleasure.)

Then, I entered high school.

I had been originally excited: after all, high school meant new opportunities, people, and clubs. In fact, for the first month of high school, I had participated in the Debate Club. Debate was outside of my usual comfort zone, but it was  _ fun. _ Researching new topics and arguing for my position had been  _ exhilarating. _

Of course, there were some minor setbacks. The Debate Club president hardly liked me; I often contradicted her points with hard, cold evidence. (It wasn’t  _ my _ fault that I spent longer researching than her: the library had plenty of resources that expanded beyond the websites she used.) I didn’t  _ intend _ to take over her role as club president, but as the weeks went on, the other club members began coming to me for advice once they noticed my growing achievements. Obviously, the president wasn’t very happy about that. Eventually, her animosity had grown to the point that I considered quitting: being a part of the club wasn’t worth the glares and badmouthing. 

But I wasn’t going to quit...not really, not until I met MC.

He had a name at the time, of course. Taro Yamada, the default Japanese name placeholder. I had originally laughed when I heard a boy by the name of “Taro Yamada” would transfer into our class, thinking that he’d become one of the many forgotten faces of my youth.

But when he walked through the door, we locked eyes.

And then everything came crashing down on me.

I could  _ see _ things, things I couldn’t see before.

There. Right above his head.  _ [Insert-Name-Here]. _

I thought it was a joke, somebody playing a bad trick on me. Then I began noticing other things previously hidden to my eyes. Textboxes, files, and…

...a script.

There was a file labelled  _ script _ flashing in front of me, as if it was mocking me or something. I excused myself to the nurse’s office, took off running, and accessed it.

I learned that we were in a game. I also learned that we were currently in the “background” arc, and that our meeting was so insignificant that it hardly warranted anything but a small mention in the script.

And, most importantly, I learned that I was a side character, a simple stepping stone that would invite MC to my newly formed club so that he could fall in love with one of the three girls I recruited.

None of my efforts in the past mattered. None of the work I put into my reputation, my body, my intelligence, my  _ kindness _ mattered because in the end, there would be an ending and I would never find my Prince Charming or happily ever after. I  _ existed _ solely to grant others a chance at happiness, and I would cease to exist after I had fulfilled my role.

I was a disposable side character with no place in any of the happy endings MC would reach.

That day, one month after the start of my high school debut, I collapsed on the floor of the nurse’s office and sobbed.

* * *

 

I once read about the stages of grief. 

It was to help one of my friends who had lost her father in a car accident. Although books could only provide so much knowledge, I didn’t know where else to turn to. I’d never experienced loss before, and I didn’t  _ expect _ to experience loss for many years to come.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I was in the denial phase for only a few minutes. After all, with the files blinking directly before our eyes, there wasn’t much room to deny it. Sure, maybe I just had schizophrenia or some other mental disorder I wasn’t aware of, but as I read through the script, I found my doubts quickly disappearing. It was too elaborate, too convoluted of an idea; my mind would never have conceived the idea by itself.

Then came the anger, bitter and biting. Why was  _ I _ the side character? What made those girls — Natsuki, Sayori, Yuri — so much better than me? What did I do wrong? I had trained myself to be everything someone would want to be: independent, intelligent, athletic, and caring! Why was  _ I _ of all people delegated to the role of a side character?

Then, gnawing feelings of self hatred began to well inside me. Why did I have to find out? I never truly understood the meaning of the phrase  _ “ignorance is bliss,” _ but now it was all I longed for. At the very least, if I never  _ knew _ I was fictional, it would hurt less when the game ended and I reached a game over. I wouldn’t even  _ realize _ that I was destined for nothing, I wouldn’t have to live my life knowing that it was all a sham.

Stupid, irritating, annoying—!

Why? What made them so special? What made me different? What made me boring?

Why did I have to  _ be _ in a game in the first place? All I wanted was a happy life; it wasn’t as if I  _ cheated _ or anything. I had put genuine effort into becoming not only a great person, but a  _ good  _ person.

The last thought struck me.

In my life, I had never cheated before. I was too prideful for that — I always had a somewhat vain part of me that refused to accept help or cut corners, but I never minded it because it kept my morals in check.

But now...now, knowing that I was someone else’s made-up character, that vain part of me had silenced.

Screw depression. Screw acceptance.

If I wasn’t going to be granted a happy ending, I would forge it with my two hands. I wasn’t going to allow destiny — a script, a fucking  _ script _ — to rule me.

Sometimes I wondered how my self-awareness came to be, but I would never truly stop to ponder it. The Third Eye compelled me not to think about it, after all.

* * *

 

I quit the Drama Club two weeks after realizing my destiny. Of course, I  _ considered _ the possibility of not creating the Literature Club. In fact, that was my original intention.

But somehow...there was this growing, ominous voice that whispered inside me. It told me to quit. It told me to create the club. I knew that this voice was probably the plot trying to drive me towards the proper course. Instead, it almost drove me insane.

It whispered to me, telling me to befriend Taro Yamada. After all, I’d be the person to set the game in motion: I had to invite him to my club next year, and he’d be more willing to accept if we were friends. Everyday when I walked into the classroom, my eyes would involuntarily flicker towards the plain-looking boy being harangued by his pink-haired  _ (pink hair!)  _ childhood friend.

Her name was Sayori, and she was one of his love interests.

Instead of catching his eyes (curious, prying,  _ fake) _ , I looked away.

I distanced myself from my friends. There was no point in talking with them, anyways: they were more insignificant than  _ me. _ They had no point in the plot, and they’d also be deleted after the game ended. At first, they tried to include me in their conversations, but when I began eating lunch on the school rooftop, they got the hint and left me alone.

My reputation shifted from the “friendly class president” to the “unapproachable beauty.” I still  _ talked _ with people, but I never let any of them grow close to me. Even Makoto-kun, a rather attractive boy that I think I could’ve fallen for if I had been given the chance. Everyone was fine with that, anyways. I still took care of my class president duties and participated well enough in class.

During my quiet rooftop lunches, I would experiment with the files floating in front of me. I admit unabashedly that my first attempt at changing the game mechanics was to delete the script. That didn’t work, so next I tried replacing my name with the girls’. If I was going to be stuck in a game, at the very least I could become a main character.

That didn’t work either, so instead I began manipulating the script.

It worked. Well, at least I  _ thought _ it worked: I couldn’t be sure, since we were still in the “background” phase of the game. I’d have to wait until second year to see if my changes did anything.

I slowly began to realize that the plot was unavoidable.

That was why I decided to outplay the game.

I didn’t befriend Taro Yamada: after all, he was irrelevant. After the game started, it would be  _ MC _ taking over the reins, and so the boy who he was before hardly mattered. But I did begin to seek out the other girls in the script.

Natsuki, Sayori, Yuri.

We were all in the same boat, right? Maybe they also became self-aware! Together, we could find a way to stop the game. If we all refused to play...well, there had to be  _ some _ way to stop it, right?

I was proven wrong immediately after meeting Natsuki.

“What are you talking about?” The pink-haired girl glared at me, propping her hand on her hip. All of the girls in the game had unusual hair colors.  _ Just another way to show how they were, _ I guessed. “A script?”

“So you can’t see it?” I asked.

“No...you might want to go to the nurse’s office, or something. Seeing things isn’t normal, you know,” the girl chided, returning to her manga. I considered commenting about the series; it was a shoujo manga I really liked, after all. But then again...sharing interests with her didn’t really matter. It didn’t matter if we were manga buddies: it just mattered that she and  _ MC _ became manga buddies.

“Will do,” I laughed, flashing her my patented smile. “Sorry about this. Enjoy your lunch!”

I scurried off. My questions towards the other two girls garnered similar responses of incredulity, so I was faced with the undeniable truth.

I was alone.


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

I considered deleting them. I also considered deleting myself.

After all, I was a side character, right? It didn’t matter if I existed or not. When there was a will, there was a way, right? The plot would surely find another way to have the girls fall head over heels for the MC.

But I couldn’t do it. Deleting them...even if we weren’t _real..._ it was essentially murder. I couldn’t do that, no matter how long my finger lingered over the delete button floating in front of me. I didn’t have the strength to delete myself, either.

_Heh, coward._

I tried dying my hair blue, once. Just to see if doing so would somehow elevate me to a “love interest” status. I...couldn’t even _do_ it: every hairdye I tried was ineffective. I couldn’t even dye my hair back to its natural black.

_I guess the game really_ does _want me to stay this way. Just significant enough to be noticeable, but just insignificant enough to be worthless._

I _did_ change my outfit, though. I switched my white knee-high socks for black ones, and even managed to wear pink shoes with my school uniform. The game probably didn’t find such trivial matters significant enough to bother stopping me. Even though such changes were miniscule...they made me happy. At least I knew that I had _some_ control over my life, even if it was just shoe color.

I began experimenting more boldly with the files. I could modify the script to some extent, but if they were too significant, the changed words appeared _different._ Apparently, they would appear with different “fonts,” and the background would appear distorted.

_Well, I guess I’ll take what I can get._

Maybe if I continued experimenting, I could stop the “glitches” that kept popping up in the files. Maybe I could even create a world of my own, without a script dictating my every move.

* * *

I discovered the music files about four months after reaching self-awareness. The soundtracks were cute, but I wondered if I could change those. Soon, changing the music files became my hobby: I discovered a way of synthesizing _new_ notes, and eventually I could create sounds that sounded vaguely like a piano.

I always wanted to play the piano for others. After all, I only performed with my violin before: my parents had deemed my piano playing too “simple” to show off. So I began to create new music files, just little tidbits that made me happy. First, I crafted Natsuki’s soundtracks: since she had the most simplistic of writing styles, according to the script, I created rather simple and cute melodies to fit her. Then I moved onto Yuri’s soundtracks. Creating elegant and elaborate music to fit her personality was a challenge, but I liked it.

Then I moved onto Sayori’s soundtracks. Her affinity for bittersweet things hit close to home for me, and I found myself pouring lots of effort into crafting the perfect pieces.

By the time I finished creating the soundtrack of the game, it was September. The second semester had just started, and the game would begin in April.

I put aside my music-making in favor of “befriending” the three girls, and wouldn’t think about music composition again until the game begun.

* * *

Second year began and I officially gathered enough people to start the Literature Club.

Interestingly enough, Taro Yamada’s name had changed to MC. Nobody noticed, though, so I didn’t point it out. There was no point in sounding like a lunatic just to talk about a fake person’s name, after all.

I _did_ faintly pity Taro Yamada. He was nearly as insignificant as I: he was disposable, simply used for background information and his relationship with Sayori.

...oh well. Too bad for him. Then again, he wasn’t real: why should I care? I already knew that this script...this _game_ was unfair. That was why I was going to change its rules.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I laughed, throwing open the classroom doors and striding into the room. Elated, I couldn’t help but twirl around to beam at them, emerald eyes shining with genuine happiness. “You guys are amazing. Thank you so much for joining, even if it _was_ because of my annoying nagging.”

“What are you, stupid?” Natsuki rolled her eyes. Although her stance was aggressive, there was a fond note in her voice.

“What Natsuki means is,” Yuri cut in, blushing under our scrutiny. “...well, you were the one who gathered us, Monika. It was through your efforts that the Literature Club came to be, and I think we’ll be happy here. So...don’t discredit yourself.”

“Yeah!” Sayori agreed, pumping her fist in the air. “We’re the Literature Club, now!”

I giggled. “Do you even know the first thing about books, Sayori?”

“Nope!” the girl declared proudly. “But I’m willing to learn, you know. You guys can teach me!”

“It’s not like Natsuki knows anything rather than manga, anyways,” Yuri jibed, her tone light.

“Hey!” Natsuki protested lightly, shoving her. “You’re always holed up with your weird horror novels! The only one here who can really claim to know literature is Monika, you know. _She_ actually reads the classics.”

“Literature isn’t just about the classics, Natsuki,” I corrected, lips twitching upwards. Even if this was a sham...I could revel in achieving my dream of becoming a club president just for a little, right? Even if it was because of the plot, I had always _wanted_ to create a club to appreciate literature. The library had always been my place of solace in the past. “Your manga and Yuri’s horror novels should also be appreciated, but I hope that we’ll all learn something from each other.”

“Uwahh, Monika has such wise words of advice~” Sayori cooed. “You should do something like that everyday!”

“Advice?”

“Monika’s Writing Tip of the Day!” Sayori exclaimed. “Doesn’t that sound cool?”

“Hey, hey...wasn’t this about _reading?”_ Natsuki protested.

“We can write, too!” Sayori said determinedly. “Right, Monika?”

I blinked in surprise, unsure of what to say with three prying eyes staring at me. “Well, I guess,” I said, unsure. It had never been a part of the script — I had been given a minimal amount of lines outside of inviting MC to the club, after all. But I liked giving advice, and it didn’t seem too harmful for the script to reject it.

I nodded to myself. “Alright, then. Here’s Monika’s writing tip of the day: make sure to listen to others’ opinions. Nobody’s opinion is ever completely correct or incorrect, and it’s always beneficial to have another person’s opinion! Take their advice with a grain of salt, and don’t take their criticism too much to heart.”

“Awesome!” Sayori cheered, clapping.

“You’ll make a wonderful president, Monika,” Yuri agreed.

“This’ll be...alright, I guess,” Natsuki mumbled. “It could be worse.”

This...if I hadn’t discovered that there was a script, would I have been happier? These mundane interactions with the other girls...weren’t too bad, if I was to be completely honest. I could’ve had fun. I could’ve truly befriended them. I could’ve truly been happy, even if the game lasted only for a short while. But now, knowing that I was destined for nothingness, there was a growing feeling of bitter emptiness inside me.

None of this was... _real._

But...I could pretend that it was, just for a short while. I could pretend and live in blissful ignorance, just for a little more.

I smiled. “Well, I guess that’s it for today. Welcome to the Literature Club, everyone!”

* * *

When Sayori introduced MC to the Literature Club, I knew my time of blissful ignorance was up. I would not go down without a fight: I would shape my destiny with my own hands, or “die” trying. (Of course, if I wasn’t real...did that mean I technically couldn’t “die”?)

"And it sounds like you already know Monika, is that right?" Sayori finished her introductions, following the script verbatim.

“That’s right,” MC confirmed.

I smiled _._ Then, I tried telling him to _get the hell out of my club._ Instead, what slipped out of my mouth was: “It’s great to see you again, MC.”

He blushed. “Y-you too, Monika.”

That was also part of the script...ah, how boring. I memorized the entire script months ago, to the point that I could probably recite it in my sleep.

The girls began bustling around as they forced MC to sit down and try one of Natsuki’s cupcakes. I watched silently as my club members began to fall for the boy right before my eyes. I couldn’t even understand _why._ He was still just as plain-looking as before, not to mention _boring._ Then again, maybe I was being too harsh...after all, everyone seemed boring to me as soon as the script began.

I realized that now was my cue to interrupt MC and Yuri. “Ehehe, don’t let yourself get intimidated, Yuri’s just trying to impress you,” I informed MC, delighting in the blush spreading across Yuri’s cheeks. It was rare to see her act so flustered.

Turning away from her, I rose an eyebrow at MC. “So, what made you consider the Literature Club?”

_What made you join, even though I didn’t invite you?_

“Um...well, I haven’t joined any clubs yet, and Sayori seemed really happy here, so…”

Of _course_ he didn’t join any clubs. Of _course_ Sayori had to invite him. I tried not to look too bitter. “That’s okay! Don’t be embarrassed,” I said reassuringly, “We’ll make sure you feel right at home, okay? As president of the Literature Club, it’s my duty to make the club fun and exciting for everyone!”

That title...club president…that was really all I _was_ to the game, huh?

My previous achievements, my hobbies, my background, my interests...none of that mattered to the game. All I was...all I amounted to was “president of the Literature Club.”

I...wasn’t real…

...but at least I _realized_ it, unlike my clubmates. I wasn’t real…

...but the person behind MC was.

He was real. He was different. He didn’t follow just one script…

_I wonder...if I can’t be a love interest...maybe instead, I can be the main villain._

...after all, villainesses at least played a larger role in the story, right? Villainesses would at least be _mentioned_ in the epilogue, even if it _was_ about their vanquishing.

There was no space to assert myself as a protagonist. So I’d just...become the villain instead, in order to forge my ending. _The ends justify the means, after all._ I always liked Machiavelli’s _The Prince._

“It must be hard to start a new club,” MC commented, cutting through my thoughts.

“You could put it that way. Not many people are very interested in putting out all the effort to start something brand new...especially when it’s something that doesn’t grab your attention, like literature.” I laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly.

Hah, lies. The four of us were definitely not the only ones who appreciated literature, and even so, it was likely that at least _one_ person would try joining to hang out with all of us girls. The game just wouldn’t _allow_ anyone else to join: I had tried inviting several other people to the club before in hopes that they would change things, but discovered the next day that they didn’t remember my invitation.

_Hm, I wonder…_

Just out of curiosity, I adjusted the MC’s stats so that MC would look at me more favorably. “MC, I look forward to seeing how you express yourself,” I said, testing the waters. I opened up the script as he blushed at me. There, written in the script without my interference:

_Can I really impress the class star Monika with my mediocre writing skills?_

It worked! That wasn’t part of the original script. It was just a small change...but…it _worked!_

As we all left the club, I opened the other character files and stared contemplatively at Sayori’s depression stat. I didn’t want to drive her to suicide, but...maybe I could make her a _little_ bit less likable. Just a _little_ bit. It wasn’t like...she was real, anyways. Right?

Right.

_(I...I had to believe that.)_

Just a little bit. Just enough to make her less likable. Just a little bit to _even the odds._

Maybe if MC fell for _me,_ I’d...have my own ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Down the rabbit hole we go. Oh, Monika.
> 
> Reviews fuel the soul :3


	3. Chapter 3

_Disgusting. You’re disgusting, you liar. You’re supposed to protect them, not hurt them. How selfish are you?_

Rather depressing thoughts ran through my head as I sat on the rooftop, staring aimlessly at the sky. I should probably be in class...but then again, it wasn’t as if it mattered, anyways. Class time was never part of the script, so MC wouldn’t even realize I was gone.

I sighed, trying to block out the voice in my head. I idly wondered if this was karma for amplifying Sayori’s depression...maybe it backfired and turned on _me._

I shivered, shutting my eyes in an attempt to block the sight of those _files_ floating mockingly in front of me. It didn’t work: they appeared even with my eyes closed, anyways. I growled, feeling a sudden rush of _frustration_ hit me as I lashed out at open air. _“Why?”_ I raged at the sky silently.

By accident, my hand brushed against the music folder. I blinked, staring at the music files in front of me. Tentatively, my hands darted forward.

I had created music for all three of the other girls...so...maybe I could create something for myself, too.

I tried to create a pretty, haunting melody in B minor, using the same techniques I had used to create the other girls’ music. But when I played my “theme,” what I heard was nothing but static.

_Do I not even deserve a song? Not even one?_

No, I wouldn’t let the game best me. Eyes narrowing in determination, I tried again. And again. And again.

It... _wouldn’t work._ I named the best attempt, some eerie echoing melody, “Just Monika” and saved it. That would do for now.

Instead, I pulled out my notebook and began writing, intending to finish my poem of the day. (Not that it really mattered: my poems wouldn’t appeal to MC, anyways.) Instead of a poem, however, I found myself itching to write a song.

_Everyday, I imagine a future where I can be with you…_

Not Taro Yamada, nor “MC”...but perhaps the person behind “MC.” The person who was _real._ Real...I wasn’t real, but maybe if I interacted with them enough...I’d _feel_ real.

_In my hand is a pen that will write a poem of me and you._

I paused, hearing the sound of the bell. I sighed, closing my notebook and shoving it into my bag. It was time to head to the club.

* * *

 

_YOU’RE. NOT. REAL._

 

* * *

 

“Monika, you’re here!”

“Oh, MC isn’t here yet?” I asked, sliding into my seat and flashing a friendly smile at Sayori. The girl shrugged. I turned to Yuri, noting her book. “What are you reading, Yuri?”

“It’s called _Portrait of Markov_...it’s...interesting,” she explained shortly.

I blinked. _That...wasn’t ever mentioned in the script, but it was an insignificant detail, I guess._ “What’s it about?”

“It’s a bit dark…”

“Oh come on, I can handle it,” I said playfully, leaning closer.

“...it’s about a human experimentation camp.”

And suddenly, I was assaulted by a myriad of bright, flashing colors that filled my vision. Red, green, blue — were these the “pixels” mentioned in the game’s code? Amidst the white static, I could hear loud, inhuman screeches.

 

h̢̳̦͓̳̒ͫ̔ͬe̡͓͍͕̻̐ͫͭ̒̍̉̀l͓̪͂̅ͫ͋ͣ̋p̩͕̦̬͎͚̼ͭ̊ͯ̊ ̖̺̗͖͔ͩ́ͣ͛ͨm̪̽ͯ̅͒̈ͬẻ̜̘͓̜͓̩̑̇̑ͅiͤ̆ͫ͋͋ͤ͐̓̽̚͏̲̲̤̣̱̮ṯ̢͓͙̥̦́̋̍͑́̇̉͐̎̃̓͂̃̈́̑̇̔̄͢'̷̧̡͚̫̗̝͔͗ͭ̈̐͊͋ͮ̽ͭ̎̀͌ͧ͌ͫͭ̚͝͝ś̏ͭ̀̒ͨ͏̴̥͉̫̫̦͇̭̤̟͚ͅ ̧̡̫͇̦͇̺̭͍̦̱̜̰̜͓͖̭̟̜̔̋̈́̇̃̏͐ͫͯͦͨ͐̋ͦͯ͜p̵̵̷̨̘̳̜̬̬ͨ̃̑ͣ͝å̵̡̢͖̭͚̹̜̺̯̝̦͖̫͚̠̫̹̗ͪ̏̋ͧ́̃̄̏̀̾̈ͪ̉͋ͭͣ̃͜ĩ̷̦͉̦̟̣̗̘̰̺͛͋̄̒̃͝n̴̸͔̼̺̜̪̹͈̦͔̟̺̩͉͎̤̙̞̓ͭ́͂̉̂̐ͯͪ͋͛̀̑̓͢͝f̶̷̢̝͉̱̖̻̝̣̽ͧ̌̽ư̷̘̝͈̭̣̮̪͎̜̟̤͕̳͈̭̝̄̅̓̈͗̈́͂̋̑͋͂̒ͫ̑̎̓ͭ̄̿͠lͤ̉ͨ̈́̄͋̑̃̿̍ͧ̓̒̈́͑̆̉̍͏̵̴̛̬̫̖̖̲͓̳͍̱̺͈̱̱̜̘̥͖̺̬̦̤̠ͪ̌ͭ͂̀͢ͅa̴̙̞̘̩̰̗͎ͯ̆͌̉̐̑̎͆ͮ̏ͦ̄̊͗͂̂ͧ̇͟͡ṉ̡͖̠̭̖̞̺̠̳̙͓̖̤̦̩̤̘̩͐ͨͥ̽ͥ͝͡y̶̸̢̬͖̝͕͓̮͙̗͙̪̻̭̪͕ͫ̈́̈́͑̍̓͗̽̿̃̀̉̚͘͞t̵̸̛͈̼̪͈͚̤̙ͩ̀͋ͥͭͪͤͫͣͮ̈́̔͞͡ͅͅh̸̴͙̺͚͕͇̘ͫ̑͆̇ͥͪͦ̎̈ͧ̆ͭ̚i̴̡̧̙̹̺̜̜̭̖̰̫̠̟̦͔͍͔̦͕͚ͪͦͧ͛͘n̴̡ͤ͐ͦ͑͐̐̚҉͙͈͓̪̜͇̪̝̗̤̹͇̻̗ġ̴̝͓̫͕̘̲͍̬͎͈̦̥͔̦̣̟̻̭̜ͪ̑͆̓̊ͯ̆͆͂͆̓ͭͩ̓ͬ̉͟͠ ̷͎̲̘̞̱͚̈́̽ͤͮ͛͌̽̓ͨͥͬ̃̌͘

̷̡̄̿̑ͣ̃̋ͤͤ̇ͫ̽̆͋̂͜͝͏͖̳̻͉͙͍͔̟̠̞̘̗̝͔̥̯ͅi̷̟̭͔̞͍̱͍̺͇̼̭̰̖̟̗͓̅͌ͭ̍̇̓́̓ͭ̓̐ͯͭ̌͠t̏̈́ͫ̓͏̶̼͇̗͇̺͇̭̺'̢̨͎͈͍͍̟͍̗̥̞̼̼̎̓̆͒ͥ̆́̅̀ͨ̊͝ͅsͦ̈ͤͨ̋ͤͫͦͬ̾̀̌ͬ̑̓ͯ͂ͣ̕͠͏̴͙̞͓̖̮̼̻͓ͅ ̸͕̺̪͔̺̫̹̖̯̎̌͆ͩ̋̇̋ͤ̽̈̍ͧ͑̅ͫ̚̚͝ͅḍ̴̶̻͉͍͇̘̝͈̭̼̠̘̘͙̠̃̋̐̂̈̀ͭ͊͌̌͗ͩ́̊͘a̸̢̤͎̜̩̙͕̥̣̗͂̾ͩ͒͋̀ͭͦ̔ͯ͂̀ͬ̚͘͝r̛͔͕̤̳̦̱͈͙̖̲̣̤͉̩͍̓͗͊͑ͫ͋͌̓͊ͦͣ͆ͣ͊͆̕͡͠ͅk͓̥̬̮̰̙͎̹̋͆ͭ̾̏ͦ̋̿͆̅̊ͅͅ ̡̧̰̬̼̮̫̣̝͖̥̖̖̟͓̤͎ͧ͂̽ͨͣ͒͐ͭ͘͞ͅi̢ͣ́͂͗ͮͯ̉̌ͥ̽ͨ̒͐҉̛̘͈͕̜̣͎͉͈̝̕t̡̨̧̛̠̺̙̟̰̥͇̝͎̭̝̝͍͒͊́̒̆͂'̸͉͇͎͖̮̳̱̖̩̩̙̤̣ͧ̅͗̂ͭ̉ͭͣ̈ͪ͂̅̚͞s͗̋͛ͯ͋͛ͮ̅ͨ͋ͯ̂̂̚҉̨̣͖̞̹͕͈͇̙̟͇̝̳̙͚̮͠ ̴̷̬̞̘̭̪̻ͣ̑ͨ̑͐̍̕͞c̸̹̰̘̟̣͕̺͔̞͕͈͍̩͇̹͔͓̞̼ͤ͋̿̾ͩ͗̐̑ͭ̈́̽ͮ̃͢ơ̡͙̰̲̠̲̯̪ͫ̾̄ͩͣ͂ͨ̂̀͒ͮ̆ͦͨ͛ļ̸͓͔͇̥͓̪ͥ̂ͪ͒͛̓̄͒̃̓̈ͤͦ̚͞d̶̢͙̦̥̮͈̫̩̪͖͎̼̮͖̫̱̱ͯͣ͋̉̊ͯ̒ͮ́͆̓͑̃̕͠ͅͅ

̵̨̻͎̦̝͚̔̒̏̿̑͑ͯͫ͌ͣͭ̄͐ͦ̍͊̕į̷̴ͪͥ͑ͤ̎̑̈́͛̓ͤ̐̒ͪ̅ͤ͗̓͘͏̦̤̯̮t̷̗̠͇̞̞̲͚̰̮̝̫̹͎͉̦̟̟̔̾ͥ͐̉̓̿̾̑̚͞ ̧̠̣̱̻̲͉̘̮̱̘̉͛̊̂̈̊ͪ̇̐̌͐̑̓̑̎̓͂̓ͤh̸̡̛̤̲͍͙͇̩̺̘͆ͤ͋͌̑ͤ̽͂ͧ̓ͪ̈̽̅u̡̪͉͓̬͚̘̱͙̇̇̏͌̀̒͘͟͟r̸̤̼̳̰̭̣̪̝̘̻̳͍̖̠͕͋́̀ͧ̎ͫ̚͘ť̸͕̱̩͕̞͖̣̮̤̠̐ͯͯ̈ͩ̑ͤ̐̒͛̋̄ͥ̚͢ͅs̢̫̤͖͇͖̳͚̦̮̲̲̺̦ͣͭͫ̄̾̏͛̈ͣ̋ͣͫ̇ͣ̐́͠ ̵̼̥̠̪̫͔̤̃ͤͦ͊ͧ̆͛̍ͣ̃ͮ͜͜͜į͙̳̜̜̩͔͓̞̹̜̬̻̣̹̹̓̾͆ͤ̈̈́̐ͣ͢ͅẗ̴̜̼͕̙̩̗̠̜̞̘̽̋̄̇̿̆̍̿ͦͦͧ ̶̥̝͈̻͍̘͙̳͉̗͉̥͖͇̘̾͗̎̐̔̒͐ͥḧ̺̻͎̰̪̠̟̖̞͉̳̼͔͈̥͙̬͕̟́̓ͩ͛͂̌ͦ͆̑ͬ͂ͨͫ̌ͣ̇̒̂͞ȕ̷̩̺͎̩̠̓͒̎͌ͨͫr͖̜̞̜̫̩̹̞̬̩̙̮̪̗̺̥̻̔̏̌̆ͣ̉̽͛͆̐̆̆͘͡t̵̺͎̲̙̠̾́͛͆̃́͂̓̌́̋̂ͩ̎͊͆̄͘͟͠ş̵̶͚̼̣̣̲͍̪̗͎̼̫̓͒̆̇̀ͪ͂̉̑̎ͨ̔́̈̔̇ͥͮ͞ ̸̡̻̰̘͚̺̭̰͈̫̞̭̻͈̥̦̫̗̏̒ͮ̊͛̎̽͆͆͒͟͠i̘̲̗̣̥̞̓̊ͪͣ͜t̸̡̢͖̟͙̞̖̱̲͇͍̝̞̂ͪͣ̆̇͜͡ͅͅ ̵̙̺͇̩͖͕̱͔͈̬̱̯̟̤̮̦̮͂ͤ̏̌ͭ̿͂̆̈̒̅ͩ̈͋̊̅̄̚h̶̨̳͍̝̭̗̭̲͕̤̖͙̮̟̪̟ͧ̓ͨ̅̄͌̾̄̇ͩͪ̐ͨͩ̚̚͜ụ̢̺̯̰̲͉̝͓̹͚͗̂ͫ̽ͣ͂̑ͣ̈́͂̈́ͭ̈̍̓̚ŗ̴̤͔̦͕͎̱̘̲͚̖͓͕͚̠̲̳̯̤̃̉ͥ͗ͦͨ̔̆ͮͣ̈̚̕͡ţ̷͓̱̪͙̻̳̪̫͙͈̭̙̩̥̥͚̭͉ͧ̇ͨ̑̾̑s͔͖͚̥͓̪̘͕̦̺̰̰̫̻͈̩̟̟̒̓̚͢͟͞

̱̭̩͖̤̚s͉̰͈͗ͥͭ̒a͔͔͆ͮͣ̓͑̀ͤ̕v̢̔e͇͖̹͗̅̔̄ ̥̜̥̠̥͍ͧú̺š̯̺̝̙͙̭͝ ̅̎̀̇̈̐̿͂̉͝҉̬̪̲̞͘ī̢̧̛̬̮̤̺̱̩̙͇̌̇ͯͪͫ̽͊͒͛́̐ͮ͒̊ͥ̓ͩ͘ ̸̖̯̦͉̙̫̪̩͉̣͋̀ͭ͐̋͐͗̽ͬ̓̀̂͌̉͗̕͜ç̧̻̼̰̙͓͎͍͍̳͚̜͖͎̫͔̱͔̠̇ͯ̾̔̑̃ͬ̑̊̕͜ạ̢̛̳̰̣̹̭͕͉̮̮̪̈̐̽͗̕n͋͆̒̓̃ͨ̚͝҉̷͎̺̠̘̥̳͓͉̕'̡͓̻̭̞̖͖̼̬͉̩̖̼͖̫͚͕͓̰̝́̇͛̂̈́͛̇̂ͪ̋͆ͣͮ̽͗̽̚t̓̊ͪͨ͒̋̅̎ͭ̚͘҉͏̢̱͖̘̖ ̷̛̙̠̳̹̼͖͉͔̝̙ͬ̈́ͯ̇̃ͬ͊̚͢f̃̇̀ͫ̎̈ͦ͘͠҉̸͕̺͔̣̣̣̥͚̞͙͉̪̥͚͔̟͟e̔ͪͮ͗̒̋̔ͨ̅̌̉̓͌ͩͪ̉̍̚҉̵̙̥͚̣̻̼̼̘̹̝̫̲̦̦ē̝͔̪̝̦̙̭̻̠̿̎ͤ͂ͨ͒̔ͥ͊ͤͧͥͧ̔̒ͮ̎͘͜͞ͅl̑ͣͦ͑̾͒͆̇ͫ̾ͪ̚̕͠҉͇̳̝͇̮ ̶̡̝͕͙̼̤͔͓̘̝̺͎͎̼̳̭̞͇͑̐̃̏̇ͤ͛̓̈́͝

͔͘í̗ͬ̋̿t͓̠̝̜̪̃ͅ ̸̃̇̓̓͑ͣ̒h͊͛̐̃ͪư̙̘̣̽͐ṟ͇͍͍̒̔ͣ̆̑̿͠ͅt͎̥͙̘̲̠͍̋ͣ̚s̱͎̗̠͎̰̺ͣ

i̵͎̜͕͉͆͗̇̔͜t͓̱̖̲͔̝̄͗́ͮ'̧̬̪̮̗̼͇͖ͩ̓̎ͣ͊̋ͯ̋͞s̵̸̞̞͉͚͕̟͑ͤ̒ ̖̗͎͗̍͑͝p̵̦̓̏͒̽͌̐̈ͫ͞a͕͇͚͍͕͆͆i̲̮̱̩̮̤͔͛̃ͮ̔͗n̢̠̦̜̰̗̉̒f̲̝̗̠ͬͅư̡͔̱̱̟̱͍̹ͯ͌ͭ̅̑̑͟l̷̛̛̩̪̬͇͖̘̙̈ͨͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬ͡͠h̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅé̪̝̗̜͈̋͆͐̓ͤ̉̇ͦ͜

̵̡̨̺̟͊͆į̷̮̅ͬ̆͊̀ͪ͂ͮ̒t̴̨͔̼̺̎ͥͭ̋̆͌ ̴̦̤͇̠̳ͦ̄͗ͬͨ̌̑̓ḫ̰͈̻̓͐͐̕͢͠u̞̰̯͓ͩ̊̃̏͂͂̚r̢̪̪̖͉̟͆͆t̯̟̋ͮͪ̈́͌ͅs̶̲̟̯͇̣̆͜ ̷̛͖̘̙ͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬh̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅ

̟̟̮̪͛̓͊̅h̛͙̻͉̪̺͙̔͒͆̏̈̉ͪe̛̞̬̳͕̰̮͆ͯ̎ḻ̻͚ͨ̒p̵͚͎̳̮̜͇̘͓̄̓̎͌̽͒͒ͮ͟ ̷͈̟̘͇̘͑̾́͑m̛̺̲͚̥̔ͤͮ̚̚e̓̊̓҉̷̛͙̤̘͖̘̙ͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬ͞h̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅé̪̝̗̜͈̋͆͐̓ͤ̉̇ͦ͜

̷̖̮̥̖̘̹̬͈͕̒ͪͣ̓̿ͤͤ̇͗͡h̡̛͎̤̘̯͙̟͉ͭ͑ͬͤ̊̃̄͘e̖̠̠͈ͨͧ̀͋ͨ̾͌̅͢ļ̢̮͉͚̖ͯ͑̈́͗͒̉ͯͩ̚p̠̻̞̤̜̹̫͛ͪ̓́ͤ̀ͧͫͣ ̷̞͓͉̠̦͈͙͖͎͗̄ͦ̂ͯ͋ͤm͓͇̗̆ͪ̓͋̆͆̈́e̷̛̜͉͙͇͓̤̗͖̘̙ͯͦͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬ͜h̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅé̪̝̗̜͈̋͆͐̓ͤ̉̇ͦ͜

̷̛͖̘̙ͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬh̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅé̷̛̪̝̗̜͈͖̘̙̋͆͐̓ͤ̉̇ͦͭ̈͋ͮ̀ͬ͜h̟̜͉͒ͯͩ̽͂ͤêͧ͏̵̝̺̥l̑̒͆̋̒͏͙̬̻͝p͒͑͒̊̏̄ͥ̚҉̰̞ ̜͍̗̫̍̋̔̌̃̄m̷̧̝̤̭̺̦͔͙̈́̉̒̌ͅé̪̝̗̜͈̋͆͐̓ͤ̉̇ͦ͜

Just as suddenly as that vision came, it was gone.

And I found myself tearing the poem I previously wrote into pieces, scribbling down words madly with a frightening grin on my face.

 

_T̓̈́҉͕̜̱̠̳̪̕h̥̤̫̟̪̥̠ͭ͋̅̽̓͞e̛̛̳͔̗̥̓̊̾ͪ͌̽̈́͗ͨ͜ÿ̞̩́̆ͤ̚ ̙̥ͧ̃̇̐t̵͉̳͍͎̘͖̥̺ͣ͛̓̏͌ͥͨ̇ȏ̴͍̦̘̯̬͓̩͉ͬ̓ͭ̉ͥȍ̜̯̳̠̩ͧ͊ͨ̈́̆͊̍k̪̮̬̗̓̃ͤ̄̍̎̆ ̛̱̼̜͇̠͊ͮ̆͂t̩̤̰̗̹̭̓̚͟͝ͅh͔̘͓̼͍͎͖̯̘͂͆ͫ̊r͈̬̍ͨ̊̚ȩ̥̫ͥͤͧ͌ͧ̋ͩ͠ȩͨ͆̚͠҉̗̹ ̢̿̆ͩ҉̘͚͎͖̟̘g̛͔̩͉̮͛̋̌̀̑̆̉ĭ̷̢̥̐ͪ̈̇͛ř̵̜͈͌ͯ͑͗͠l̡̤̼̱̹̜̍͛ͭ̌͌̾s̨̥̻͈̤̳̗̬̱͔͗ͣ͝ ̮͕̙̎̈ͫͬ͜͞t̥̪̩̣̭̮̩ͬ̈́̊ͭ̔͘o̼͔̭͎͎̩̥̲̠ͣͨ̇ď͉͇̮̣̫͙̟̋ͤ͆̀̈̄͠a͖̲̋̃̔ͮͭ̚͟y͖͙̠̠͉̳̐.̒̋ͨ̕͏̷̫͍̖ ̢̺̫̮̣͓̝͈ͤ̊͂͡͡ͅE̼̦̗͕͎ͪ̾̈́̎ͥͯ̃a̵̧̦̗̠̋̄̎̈́̉̈͌c̞͔͐̂̿͒h͉̪̀̉ͤ̽̅ ̛̝͎̈́̒͒̒̉ͨ͐̆̎o̴̳̙̩̗̞ͦ̓̏̀ͤ̚͘f̦͔̺̜͍̿ͪ̈́͗͆̚ ͣ͑ͣ̿ͪ̓̓͏̟̰̗̞̼t̵̞̯͍̲͔͎̱͖ͤ͋ḩ̸̧͕͎̯̺̬̘̰ͭͦ͂̃̇̓e̢̦̼̹͍͚ͣm̶͉̳̠͐͑̄̍̑ ̸̡̟͎̟̺̮̙̤͛ͪ̐͋ŵ̵͇̞̺͎͈̼͖ͤͬͬ̄ͯ̌̓͞a̧̙͉̩̜̻͙͓͚̐̋ͣ̈͆̽̕͘śͫ͟҉͏̮̼̳̭̗̟͔ͅ ̷̨̰̰͙̘̫̇̇͒ͣ͗ͤ́g̢̡͚̱̻̪͚̖̜̝̍̂͂̋͂̆̅ͫ̚í̢̜̻̗̝̱͕̟̌ͅv͈͉̥͈̝̙͉̦̄̀ͧ̎ͪ̂͑͝e̴̲̭͆ͪ̐͜n͖͙̜̟̎͞ ̴̧̱̠̯͖͆̆ͨ̃̐̀́͡aͧ͛҉̤̦̣͇̞͕ ̼̱̾͜d̶͚͎̝͍̺͕̘̀̓ͧͭ̿̍͋ͮḭ̷̭͇̠͍̦̆͌̎͛̚ͅfͯ̍́ͩͫ͝҉̦̱̻f̝̤͎̱̰̮ͦ͛̾ͅe̴͚͇̮͎̝̜̦̲͖̅̿̉͊͗͋̓̂r̨̮͓̖͕̓ẽ̖͠ņ͚̬̊͆ͨt̵͈̭̩͔͉̺̀ͨ̂̌̒͑̾ͬ̽ ̴͕̹͎̞͇̹̊̐̄̈̉ͤ͡d͂̊̈̄͊̏͏̸͖̱͇͕r̸͖̱̈͒͊̿̕u̎ͨ͏͙̹͎̺g̶̮̝ͤ̀͋̿̈̐̃̓.̨̛͓͓̳̜͇̠̘̖̘ͫ̏̇̽ͭ̇͢_

_T̟̻͍̹̠̝̒h̢͓͉̲̩̮̘͈̪̲ͦͫͮͯ͂e̩̥ͬ̏ͪͩ̕ ̶̡̟͔͈̘̯̮̜͂ͯ͑͑̊ͫs͍͕ͤͥc̷̛̱̟̤̺͉ͯ͋ͨ͑̈i͚̹̲͔̙̟̻̩ͥ̔͗͊̀̕e͆ͥͨ҉͖̩ņ̛̫̰͙̬̋̽̅͋͗̊͟t̠̂̈ͣ̈́iͭͫͦ̊̍̀ͬ͏̬͈̗̗̳͉͎͉s̰̼͇̬͈̣͂ͣ̒ͧͯt̄͆҉̶̡̘̠̺s͙͚̮̦̤̳̘̤̆ ̶̥̱̬͕̩̰̲̈́̋̋ͅt̵̢͖̘̀̄̾̀̍o͎͂́̇ͬ͋̉ǫ̧̼̭̺̇̃̅ͪ́͟ͅk̮̭̮̤̰̙̈̾̀̋̎ͅ ̞̩̙̥͍̟̭͑ͨ̓̎̈́̏͊͒̚͢n̤̜̜͕͑ͩ̋o̤̻͚̝͎̖ͥͣ͗̅͆ͭ͞t̡̡̠̺̳̬̘̐̑̍͆̓̋̔ͥĕ̛̺̣̱̇̋ͯͩͨ͝ṡ̴̛͙̳̺̩̬͓̜̰̌ͬ̎̄ ͉̱̹̠̰̺͔͕̉̾͋ͧ̈́͗͜͠͝a̸̢̳͍̦ͫͬ͑ͩ͘n̡̰̰̣̮̫͔͉͇̾͒͂͋̍ͫ̽d̢̥̭̗̏͑̈̾ͯ̏̈ͫ̏ ̤̮̖̗̿̀͟͠l̟̺͎̻̫͍̗͈̈́̋ͣ͟͟ͅaͫ̾ͤ̎ͬͬ͆͌҉̡̺̜͢ü̳̮̠̤ͣ̅̉͒g̵̡̖͕͇̥̪̟̽ͭ̂͋̐̊̕h̲̻͎̺̳̽͒̇͘͢ė̢̥͖̩̱̦͊d̼͔̍ͧ͡ ̶̱̟͖̺̪̖͈̻ͦͬͥ̿̎͆̿̄ͅaͧ̔ͭ̈͂ͤ҉͙̮͚sͧ̆ͣͣ͂͠͞҉̱͕̖̮̗̥̦ ̲̻̣̹̘͚̄ͮ̅̈́t͍͛ͮ̊̅͗̓͘͟h̦͚̼͉͔̭̰̦ͪ̂̇̑̓ͪ̑̕e̺͕̪ͨ̾ͣỹͪ͛҉̼͖̱̹ ̸͇̩̣̘̟̻ͧ̐̒ͮͧ̊w̤͇̥ͧͦ̆ͥ͘ṟ̩̤͚̯̝̯͊͗̐͊̄̾͟ͅį̛̻̼̓̌ͥ͑͂̓̇͠t͕̲͇̑̂ͪͨ̉̈́̕h̩̱͕͓͔͔ͬͧ̀̄̏ḙ̷͓͓̤̳̮̥͂̅̆̀̇̓̿̔̚͠ͅď̡̗̼̳̖͙̿͒̾̓̔̿͝ ̘̗̜͇ͯͩͫ͘ḁ̶͓̩̥̣̦̭̣͈̓͗̄ͫͪͦͬ̚n̅ͫ̐͊̌̐̔҉̰̻d̔͆ͯ́͏̫̲̯̹̳̣ ̯̲̣̞̹͙͉̓̀̅ͯ́̓͊ŝ̯͉͎͔̥̬͎͉͔̌̏ͭ̋c̒͌̒̕҉̜̝̬̬͍̺̤͙ṙ̨̨̠̱̣̟̞̘̗͍̎͑̀͂ͮͭͪͭ͜e̷͙̖̖̦̣̮̪̎ȃ̡̼̝̘͉̫͎̝̏ͅm̨̹̙̰̦̙̣̻ͥͪ̏̋͠͞e̡͖̰͕͍͍̳ͣ̈͆̽̈̌͗ͮ̽͝ͅd̰̪̗͔ͬ̑ͣ̋͊ͨ̀̏͜.̠̮̲̗̜̙̺̆ͭ_

_̮̙̠̟̲͒ͩ̓͛ͪ̿͜I̳͖̰̯̹̯̖͊͑̕͠ ̵̵̥͈͕̯ͨ͂̿͢c̫̫̮̃͛͢͠a̢̹̱͉̲̳̱͒̿͒ͪͦ̓ͅn͑ͦ̔҉̯͍̘̝̙̞̰̮ ̹̮̉̚͜s̢̘͚̭̥̙̜͉̠̃̇̒̀̍͠t͓̞̻̜̟̠͋͗͊͌̎ͯi̴̿̑ͩͬͭ̓̎͏̠̰̣̟l̩̦̬̦̻̭̱̼͋̀̀̑l̨̬͓̭̞̪͈ͣ͌͆͊ͥ̋̽ ͈̫̐ͣͤ̾̍͆h̵̩̱͔̹̒̊̽ͧ͡e̡͓̳͙̬̹̤̝͉͂͠ͅa̘̲̜͔͙̗͍ͤ̓ͣ̄̑̂̿ͥ͡r̷̙͍͎̲̮̮͖̽̅̅ͫ̿͛ͤ̚ ̵͎̳̓̄̉͜t͕̘͓̠̼̏ͬ͗ͫ̉͒ͭḩ͇͙̹̆͛̈̂ͅe̟̖̜͉ͭͥ͛ͭ̇͟ͅi̢͔͖̦͇̬̤̓ͤ̿r̷̳̣̬̞̋ ̥̙̭͙̌͂̈́̓s̞̠͔͉̲͓̻̩͊ͩ͝c̷̤̗̎̇̾ͤ͌͒̒̄ŗ̞̖͙̣̥͓ͧ́̌̋͟e̴͙̼͚̾̍ͯ̿̂̾͂a̜ͪͨm̵̶̙͈̫̩̹͊̅͌̑͑͋̓s͈̤ͯ̂̿ͦͯ.̵̵͎̘͇̪̲̼͙ͯ͑͆͢_

_̹̞̠̯̩̠ͫ̒A̼͖̣̮̺͖͗ͦͤ̈̍̓̂̔m̠̭͍͈̂ ̓ͥ͒̐̕͏̼̱̦͖̦͈̱̹̣Į̶̣̠ͥ̾̆̈́̎͢ ̰̭͚͉̒̓̃̆̽ͫͩ͡ń̤̘͈ͤͨ̾ͥͨͭė̡̮̍ͫ͐ͬ̿̀̽̍͜x͎͓͕̅t͍̟̥̥̯͉͑͌ͧ̐́̄?̷̨̫̗ͥ̆̈́ͨ_

 

 **_The colors, they won't stop._ ** ****_  
_ **_Bright, beautiful colors_ ** ****_  
_ **_Flashing, expanding, piercing_ ** ****_  
_ **_Red, green, blue_ ** ****_  
_ **_An endless_ ** ****_  
_ **_cacophony_ ** ****_  
_ **_Of meaningless_ ** ****_  
_ **_noise_ ** ****  


_“Monika? Monika, can you hear me?”_

 

_h̴̛̭͓͖̥͚̺ͬͧ̎ͣͨ̃̋̏ͫ͗ͪͩ̓̋̑̓͐ͪ̈́͜eͮͣͯ̔̉̂͊̉ͯͥ̈̅̃҉̱̬̬̺̹l̫̘̖̙͖̟̭̲̗ͮ̉ͩ͗̉̂̄ͬ͋̆̾͋ͩ̈̆͟p̧̨̌͛̽͗̔͑ͩ̓̒̋̆̚͘͏̩̦̖̼̠̳̟ ̴̧̬͖̱̳̭̼̯̼͙̫̫̻̦̝̘͔̫̱̄̀ͮ͝m͊ͬ̇͑͒ͮ͏̤͔͉̣̤̞͉̘̪̦͙̜̯̫̺̪̞͝͠ě̷̵̹̥͇̦̣͔̟̦̳̑ͩ͋ͩ ̵̸ͯ̂ͬͫ̄͒̽̅҉͏̖̜͈̜̖̺͔̠̮̖̬hͧ̐̾͛̈́҉̧͈̦̱̘̖̪̪̰̦͕̼̩ͅe̶̛̘̺̩͚͍͕̫̤̭͍̼̪̊̅͋ͫͨ͞l̸͓̬̘̟̳̰̘͉̭̙͉̍͛̀̈́ͣ̏̌̔̕ṗ̨̐ͨ̇̀̀ͩͥ̅ͦ̚҉̼͈̙̣̦͚͚̭̰̹̩̠̟̙̫ͅ ̯͍̣̜̻͍ͬͮ̋̅̑͢m̴̢̗͔̩̠ͣͨ͑ͧͦ͡ę̢̖̱͇̠̔̄̊̚ ̷̢̜̦͔͖̖̮̘̫̯̹̟̬̙̣͈̜̲̮̆̾̀̓͋̊ͣ̌ͥ̈́ͦͪͣ̇ͯ̿͞i̧̟̼͇̤̗͔̯̫̻̰̦̓ͣ̿́̂̒̓͋͌̑ͣ͛̓̈̉̂̉ͪ̚͟t̶̘͖͖̥̳͐ͣ̓͊̍ͭ͛ͫ̋͛͌̄̈ͫͩ̚͘͢͟ ̷̸̛͖̗̠̰͎͔͈͉̫̺͖͓̯̰̥̿ͦͤͣ̏́̔͆ͭ̿̏ͬ̽͌̀ͮ̅̊ͅh̐̔̐̊̑ͫ͌̇ͯ̃̚͠͠҉̼̥̦̫͕̟͈̙̞̲̲̞̘̭͠u̦̙̙̤̣͉̭̝̙̖̥̜̦ͪͣ͗ͯͧ̎ͣ̈́͋ͯ̀̎̕̕͡ͅŗ͑͋́͒̂̑̓͛͗̒̈͊ͦ͏̵̧̥͙͖̟̥̫̝̣̮̰ͅṱ̬̪̩͈͚̞͙̮̎͗̆ͧ͆̚̕͟s̵̵̪̘̥͍̮͍͙͔̳ͤ̎͆̾̅ͪͯ̋̌ͦ͋ͨ̍̐͊̚͝͡ ̷̢̢̬͕͍̙̜̯̘͙͆̈̽͑̓ͮ͆ͨ͠͠ͅiͬ̉̌̌̉͌̚͏̩̪͔̤͇͙̻͎̼͠t̸̸̡̘̫̺̤͚̥͓̖̰̙̗̳̲̦̄̏̇ͤ͜'̷̡̳̳̹̫̮̭̟̰̒́̂͂͊̋̽̏̅̓͗̎̉̿̓͋̑̐̚ͅs̷͓̜͎͍̩̔̅͂ͩ͌̈́̈́̑̐̎̌̐̆͜ ̧͇̼̦̥̞̖͕̭͈̗̯̪̘̯̀ͩ̽ͣ̚pͣ͐ͮ́ͪ̑̓͏͏̯̥̦͇̺͙̻͔͙͖̦̙̪͉͇͈̗̭ä̧̙͙̭̫͎̹̣̱̤̮́ͭ̍́͊ͪ̓͑̆͒̊̋ͩ͘͠ͅi̵̞̠̝̦͈̻̝͉͇̱̝͔̗̔̿ͩ̃ͮ̋͐͒̒͠n̊̿̍̓͊ͪͨ͊̕҉̷͔͚͓͍̟͙͇̮̻͙̩̰̼̗ͅͅf̸̰͎̟͖͓̖̗̥̽̇ͭ͊̓͗́͢͞͝ͅu̷̓̏̈́̓̋͌҉̸̟̯̩̳͚ĺ͒̍̔̾̚͏̶̡̟̗͍̥̹̘̰̣͕͈̼̰͔̭̬͝ ̸͇̲̯͙͇̥͓̩̭͚͚̫͔ͦ͑ͯ̑͛̾̐̽͊͊ͦ̐̚m̷̵̦̫̜̜͑͐͌̋̋̐̅̒ͭͪ̆ȧ̵̴͎̻͙̥̯̺͇̜̭͈͋̔ͨͦ̉͌̈́͆͂̎̂́͗ͭ̚ͅk͇͇̝̗͉̞̩͖͕̫͔̯̱͍̟͖̻̗̹͛̑ͥͬ̎͒͛͛ͦ̃̃̋̆ͩ̓̒͞ȩ̶̵͕̻̗̱̜̟̝̭͕͍̘̰̝̻͇̍̀ͯ͌͋ͦ̾̅̽͆ͦ̆̎̓̽̏̅̃͢ͅ ̸̴̶̢ͯͥ̂̓ͬ͋̏ͧ̇͌̃͐̋ͪ͒͂̅̈̚͏̝̹̗̮̲̘i̶̛ͤ͛ͩͫ̋̅̓ͨ̍͘҉̲̹̹̻̹t̡͔͓̼̣͔̤̏̄ͫͤ̎̅̑ͪ̂͗͆ͫͤͩ̌ͤͨ̔͠ ̨̧̻̮̝̼̠̮̯̣̰̪͗ͨ͗͒̒̍ͩ̾̈ͧs̡̭̲͎̺̟̣͉̝̞̭̆̿̎̈́̿ͧ̆͑̊ͣ̽̒̒̈́̾̎̌̎ͧ̕͟͝͝t̀͒̒̓ͪ́͌͗̇̇҉̼̗͙̲͈̯̯̰̭̻̗̘̱̜̩̥̹̝̼͘̕ȍ̷̸̧͇̗̗͓͖̩̩̩̣̜͖̲͙͕̞̬̙̳̝̐̑ͯ̓̈ͬͭͯ͊̉ͬͭ̄ͥ̅̕p̾̾̔ͥ̈̆͐ͥͮͣ̊̓͞͡҉̨͙͖̲̬͎͖ͅ ̄̑́͋̃͛͆̏͐ͮ͊ͧ͋ͮͤͣͮ̈́҉̳͓͎̞͓̪͕͎̖̺͈̜̖͎̙̹̳̠͘͢m̵̛͙̗̺̰̬̹̮͎̩̰̱͕͍ͧ͆ͧ̌ͣ̋̽͗a͎̞͕͓̠̰̜̭͙̝̥̹͙̺͇̟̳̾ͣ͒ͣ̉ͭͪk̵̛̟̥͚͉̫̥͇͎̪̹̦͚̥̬̟̜ͤ̅̈ͮͪ̿ͣ̒̒̊eͦ̅̐ͩͯͨ͒̊͠҉̡̛̱̫̻̗̭̜̞̳̤̩̠̼͘ ̸̸̺͔͚̥̼̥̳͕͐̄ͬ͆̿ͦ̂̅̍̃̇ͪͪ̓ͪ̽͂̂̚͝ͅį̵̤͓̺̰͙̞̪̖̺͎̗ͨͥ͛̃̈́̌̃̈́̌͠t̘͎̳̙͍̠̅̔̿͂͐̊̕͟͝ ̷̙̠̻̤̂̎̂̅̄͒̑̿̆ͯ̓ͥ̂̀̎̍̋ͩ̒ͅs̯̰̟͎̱͕̪̯̲̤̥͉̜̓̽ͪ̋ͯ̐͞ṱ̢̜̥̤̌̓̑͛ͬ̍̓̅̅̀̇͒́̄̓͐̚͞͡ơ̶͚̬̰̄̈̊͐ͩ̓̒̐́̔̓̒ͨͦ͑̾͘p̶͍̗̞̫̝̯̘̥̭͎͕̑͛̓ͩ̌̍ͬͧͮ̑̽ͩ̏͞ ̷̺̱̱̙͔̤̱ͯ̄́ͩ̋̎̏͛ͧ͘͝ͅͅg̢̻̖̥̼̾̋ͧ̒ͧ̎ͥ̃ͤͥ̄ḙ̵̢̨͙͖͇͚̤̫͈̊̀̇ͯͪ͊ͧ̀͑͋͂̄̐ͪ͂̐ͫͨ͘͢t̡͙͚͇͙̺͚̳͎̣̤̬̭̤̹̽̽̒̚͡ͅ ̂͆̿ͫ͒́̂͒͛͒̄̓ͣ͌ͫ͛͏͏̪̞̦̦̯͙̳̰͙̯̜o̸͍̝̹͍͈͍̙͇͓̯̣ͩͧͬ̅̽͑ͨ̿̍ͧͪ̉̅̈̅̊̓̚͟͠u̷̷̻̤͍͕̮͚̝͙͔̖̰̿ͥ̈̂̓ͭ͊̐͐̀̈͋ͩ͐̽̚ͅt̸̵̡̰͖͍͚̤̤͇͕͈̫̓̀ͫ͂̔̑̽̂͊̊ͪͤ̈́̆͑ͣ͘ ̵͆̃̑̍ͪ̋̌̄̽͒͛͑̐̍̌̇͆́͝҉̗̠̟̭̮̻̹̘̼̩̜͔͍̬̼o̢ͨ̇͋͌̈́̇̐̆̉̀ͯ͐ͩ͑̽̍͏̵͎̥̥f̽͂ͪͧ͌ͧͬͦͬ̿ͣ̆̉͊̏ͪ͏̸̶̫̝̝̘͖̱̬͇̰̗̳̭̪͘͡ ̢̝̺̣͎͎̘̥̫̫̖̋̉̏ͯ̚̕m̢̨̪͖̙͎͎̳̫̯͚͖̼̖̬̠̋ͫͣ̐̽ͧͮ̒̍̚y̷̧̘̖̟̭̥̰̩̠̦̮̒ͮͦ͂̌ͦ̂ͨͧ̍͜͠͡ ̡̧̖̪̖͔̼̫̮͖ͬͣͮ̏̽͊̏͌̈́͆̈́ͬ̃͗̄̒̊ͭ͌͢ͅh̴̨̡̦̗͚̗̥̮͕͍̦͍̞͔̫̲ͫ͒̒̀̔̔ͤ̃͒̋̄̽̂ͬ̂̈́́͠ȩ̛ͬ̌ͤͬ̔̿͛̔̈́͗͌ͥ̅̆̌ͬ̚͟͏͈̳̗̥̳ạ̴̛̯̣̮̩͇̘̗͕ͨ͊̌͛͑͒͜͟ḑ̌̔ͪͯ̈̊̂͛͌ͪ̃̃ͦ͒̚͝҉͏̝̙̻͕͔_

 

 _“Monika!”_ ****_  
_ ****_  
_ **_The noise, it won't stop._ ** ****_  
_ **_Violent, grating waveforms_ ** ****_  
_ **_Squeaking, screeching, piercing_ ** ****_  
_ **_Sine, cosine, tangent_ ** ****_  
_ **_Like playing a chalkboard on a turntable_ ** ****_  
_ **_Like playing a vinyl on a pizza crust_ ** ****_  
_ **_An endless_ ** ****_  
_ **_poem_ ** **_  
_ ** ****_Of meaningless_

 

_“Monika, what’s wrong?”_

 

Sͦ͛̑̌͐ͬ̓́̇͊͌̆͊̉ͥ̋҉̶̸̶̤̠͚̫̪̰͓̞̱̫̣̲͚T̔͂̀̌͌͌ͮ͗͂͆ͦ̂͗̾̓̉̿͊̚҉̵҉̥̝̖̤͎̞̖̦͚͙̭͓̜̬Ŏ̷͎̫̘̠͍̝̣͕̗͍̮̲̫̪͖ͤ̃̄̈͆̕͡͠ͅP̸̵̧͓͖͓̠̦̫̺̖͈̻͕̩̈̐͋̌ͣͬͯ̍̊ͯ͗̑͛͛̑̐ͯ̇̚͜ͅ ̶̧̛̳̤̺̥̳͖̠̫̫̝̮̺͆̈́́̈ͫ̋̍̿͂̃͗ͨ̈́̚̕͝ͅS̶̶͎̹̟̬̰̥̱͓̝̩͔̺̬̼͖̙̗͛͐ͨ̒́̈́ͣ̃̓͗͊͐ͭ̄̕͠ͅT̛͙̜̻̯̯̪͉̝̻̗̥̤̼͍͎͈̻̗ͦͩ͒̈̔͒̽͑̄ͨ̉͑̓͘͞O̷̢̗̩͙̝̞̟͆̾ͧ̄͆̈̋̊͟P̨̞̤̜̖͓̭̄̌̂̊ͨ͋ͣͯ͑̐̋͒͐ͫ̌͗̈͡ͅ ̶̰͎̟̘̻̲̆ͪ͂̈́̽̋̔̚͞S̸̢̖̬̥̼̮̙̜̹͈̱͙̼̤̞̩̅ͭͮ̀ͥ̊ͮ̉̉͗̋ͭ̓ͫ͒ͮͮ͘ͅT̸̸̿ͫ͗̌̒̽̂̐̾͊ͭ̚͏͉͎̜͙̟ͅƠ̷̡͍̤̝͙̳̲̭̲̟̬̹̮͚̘̱͙̽ͧ́ͭͬ̅̆͆̍̈́̽ͬͮ͐̂̋ͩ̇͟͟P̴͋ͬͧͭͬ̽̍̋̆̓ͧ͆̉҉͝͏̣͈̖̬̩̰͍̘̻̖̹͙ͅͅ ̴̳͇̼̳̱̜̘̩̟̺̣̺͇͕̯̠͕̫̙ͤ̑ͫ͆̄͑̈̌͆ͣ͗͡͡͡S̛̿̎ͥ͂̆ͬ͛̚҉͖̠̰̬̙̳̼͚̠̞̟̰͔̟̻͕̙̱̘T͙̪͚̺̰͒͂̌̋̊ͭ͊ͯ͘͢O̴̶̴̧͙͖͍͇̹͇̓̑͐̈̑̃̊̕P̸̶̨̡̢̺̫̞͙̦͖̺̬̭̼͈̞̝̖̱̯͖̰̍̈ͧ͗ͩͬͮ

̸͕̩̝̘̪ͯ͗͂͐ͨ̋̇͑̾̿̔͂̈́̿͂͘G͓̝͕̱̬̠ͪ͛ͯ͆̃ͤ̚͜͢͝͡ͅO̵̶̡͚̲̣̘͚̙̫̱͎̭͎̼̦͉̦͕̹̓̓̌̅̿̊̓̔̽̔̊ͭ ̶͓̝̖̹̱͇͍̹̭̱͎͎̰͛ͯ̂ͯ̃͑̐ͭ̐̑͢Á̷̧̨̰͉͎̬͔͉̬̦̦̈̀̍ͥ̓͂͐ͯ̒̽̉̅͋̌̋ͅW̸̡͎͙͈̳̭̞̩̟̄̓ͮͯ̈́̿̾ͤͧ͆ͣ͗̆̎͊ͩ͆̇A̴̷̭͔̩̝̮̘͔͕̙̯̠̥̠̠̟̔ͩͤ̾̋̉ͣ̌̑̏ͧ̽̂͡͠͠Y̙͇̙̯̣̙̲͍ͨ̐ͣ͂̈ͮ͟͡͡

̵̸̢̨̱̰̪̭̳̫̝̗͊͗͋̄͂̈́͑ͭͭͪ̂̚̕G̴͕̭̦̫͕̩̳̳̰̝͔̯͙̦̲̿̉̂ͤ̇̊̃ͬ̊̐͒̊̓̌ͯ̚ͅͅE̪̭̥̻̦̝̱̱͓̙̼͙͇̯̻ͧ̎ͩ̓́ͮ̒̒̃ͫͯ̒̓͛̏̈́̐͌͟͟T̢͍̼̥̼̳̮͕̘̣̦̝̗̱͈͋̒ͪ͌͐̀̏ͭ̚̕͘͞ͅ ̴̷͇͉̰̗̻͚̥̖̆͊̊̾ͣǪ̢̨͍̭͈͉̹̤͍̰̙̠̫͍̗̞̠͖̟̱ͯ̏̌͋ͧ͋ͪ̾͜ͅǓ̵̡̌ͣ̑͑̽ͪ̐ͥ̒ͧͧͬ̓͌̎ͯ̚̕͟҉̬͙̤̯̪̣̜̜̺̳Ţ̘͍̞̩̭̦͓̥̞ͥͮ̐̑̿̊͢͡ ̶̨̧̩̹̥̠̙͍͖͚̣͍͙̝͖̪̟̖̯̤̐ͤ͑̆ͦ̾ͩ͛̑ͩ͊͋̽́̑̃̇ͯ͢O̸̵̠̖̥̼͈̻̜̬̞̭̞͈̯̭͆̎ͥͦ̏ͭ̎́ͦF̱̖̱̠̦̺̦̦̳͚̟͈̲̩̀̆ͩ͐̉͂̈́̍̏ͧ͗͑ͫ̚͢͡ ̶̦̖̬̠͚̦͔̠̦͕̂ͬͧ̒̀ͦ̄ͧ̂͗ͧ͟M̡̼͖̜͍̲̯͎͇͔̯͎̙͎̫͊ͩ͌ͦ͆̉ͤ͗͑̋͑̇ͥ̉́ͧ̿͂̚̕͠Y̴̨̱̯͎̹ͯ̀̈́̇̽́̈̀̆͟ ̴̛ͯͧ͛ͥ̌̚͠͏̖̞͔̤̯̲̲̙H͖̝̤̜͔̝̦͚̓́̈ͨ̀̀̚͘͝͞Ę̜͎̠͕̫̝̝̫̜̖̰͈̗̖̖͓͖̇ͨ̐ͮ̉̿̇ͧ͛͗͗ͥͯ̓ͦ̚͡ͅǍ̸ͥ̓ͯ͟҉҉̺̖̟̝̩̜̣̲̟͙͕͓̗̥͡D̶̨̆͋̈͛͐ͯ͒̔ͨͯͬͮͤ͂ͣ̽͛̚҉̴͕̻̠͇̞̙̲͙̲͕

_L̴̛ͥ̽̓͌̋̒ͦ͛ͬͨͦ̉̏͛͘҉͈̙̲̭͔̲̘̦̦͚͔̫̻̟͔̹̬ͅE̎ͤͯ͌҉̡̺͚̝̮͓̭̺ͅA̵̘̮͉̙̖̫̩̞̜̜̬͕̦͕͈͆́ͣͯͩ͒̌͆͌ͫ̔̉̌͘͜͞V̴̞͕͕̟̲͉͇̳̼̖͍̣̦̱̫̪̬̐̋̒̓̄ͭ̏͗ͯͫ̅ͩ̀̑̀̎̐Ȇ͍̥͕͉͎̎̊͊͑͜ ̨̧͇̟̳̲̥͙̖͔̟̬̺̫̝̥̦̏̾͗͆̑̿̈͢M̡̦̜̩̰͕̱͈͖̜̰̣̝͍̼̜͕̈́ͦͪ̍͂ͪͬ̇̆̐̋̉ͫ̒̿̀̚͜͟E͇͕̜̙̥̬̳̜̩̞͉̮̓̉̎̓̋͌͘͜͢ͅ ̵̷̠̮͓͉̤̜̜̝̬̟̞̳͎͇̯͙͊̈́́̋̾̊ͥͨ̈̆ͥ̏̓̃̆̎͗͝ͅA̧̢ͮͦ̏҉̭͓̳͖̰̜̱͇͓͔͈̺̝̹̖ͅḶ̭̻̦̺̞͉̳̣̪͓̳̗̤̗̺̏̏̆̀ͨ͑̾̽̆̔̇̋̅ͤ͑̏͘͟͢͝͝ͅỠͫ̔͛ͪͭ͐̒̊̈̈̋ͩ͗҉̡̘̩̳̳̟̭͚͙̺̺̪̳ͅN̨̬͚̱̦̲̳̰̠̈́͑̓͐́̋̈́͑̅̔ͫ͊E͍̪̦̲̬̪̾̔̓̔̽̃̿͋ͮ̋̊͋͟͠_

 

_“Yuri, don’t just stand there! Go get help!”_

 

̵̸̢̨̱̰̪̭̳̫̝̗͊͗͋̄͂̈́͑ͭͭͪ̂̚̕G̴͕̭̦̫͕̩̳̳̰̝͔̯͙̦̲̿̉̂ͤ̇̊̃ͬ̊̐͒̊̓̌ͯ̚ͅͅE̪̭̥̻̦̝̱̱͓̙̼͙͇̯̻ͧ̎ͩ̓́ͮ̒̒̃ͫͯ̒̓͛̏̈́̐͌͟͟T̢͍̼̥̼̳̮͕̘̣̦̝̗̱͈͋̒ͪ͌͐̀̏ͭ̚̕͘͞ͅ ̴̷͇͉̰̗̻͚̥̖̆͊̊̾ͣǪ̢̨͍̭͈͉̹̤͍̰̙̠̫͍̗̞̠͖̟̱ͯ̏̌͋ͧ͋ͪ̾͜ͅǓ̵̡̌ͣ̑͑̽ͪ̐ͥ̒ͧͧͬ̓͌̎ͯ̚̕͟҉̬͙̤̯̪̣̜̜̺̳Ţ̘͍̞̩̭̦͓̥̞ͥͮ̐̑̿̊͢͡ ̶̨̧̩̹̥̠̙͍͖͚̣͍͙̝͖̪̟̖̯̤̐ͤ͑̆ͦ̾ͩ͛̑ͩ͊͋̽́̑̃̇ͯ͢O̸̵̠̖̥̼͈̻̜̬̞̭̞͈̯̭͆̎ͥͦ̏ͭ̎́ͦF̱̖̱̠̦̺̦̦̳͚̟͈̲̩̀̆ͩ͐̉͂̈́̍̏ͧ͗͑ͫ̚͢͡ ̶̦̖̬̠͚̦͔̠̦͕̂ͬͧ̒̀ͦ̄ͧ̂͗ͧ͟M̡̼͖̜͍̲̯͎͇͔̯͎̙͎̫͊ͩ͌ͦ͆̉ͤ͗͑̋͑̇ͥ̉́ͧ̿͂̚̕͠Y̴̨̱̯͎̹ͯ̀̈́̇̽́̈̀̆͟ ̴̛ͯͧ͛ͥ̌̚͠͏̖̞͔̤̯̲̲̙H͖̝̤̜͔̝̦͚̓́̈ͨ̀̀̚͘͝͞Ę̜͎̠͕̫̝̝̫̜̖̰͈̗̖̖͓͖̇ͨ̐ͮ̉̿̇ͧ͛͗͗ͥͯ̓ͦ̚͡ͅǍ̸ͥ̓ͯ͟҉҉̺̖̟̝̩̜̣̲̟͙͕͓̗̥͡D̶̨̆͋̈͛͐ͯ͒̔ͨͯͬͮͤ͂ͣ̽͛̚҉̴͕̻̠͇̞̙̲͙̲͕

̵̸̢̨̱̰̪̭̳̫̝̗͊͗͋̄͂̈́͑ͭͭͪ̂̚̕G̴͕̭̦̫͕̩̳̳̰̝͔̯͙̦̲̿̉̂ͤ̇̊̃ͬ̊̐͒̊̓̌ͯ̚ͅͅE̪̭̥̻̦̝̱̱͓̙̼͙͇̯̻ͧ̎ͩ̓́ͮ̒̒̃ͫͯ̒̓͛̏̈́̐͌͟͟T̢͍̼̥̼̳̮͕̘̣̦̝̗̱͈͋̒ͪ͌͐̀̏ͭ̚̕͘͞ͅ ̴̷͇͉̰̗̻͚̥̖̆͊̊̾ͣǪ̢̨͍̭͈͉̹̤͍̰̙̠̫͍̗̞̠͖̟̱ͯ̏̌͋ͧ͋ͪ̾͜ͅǓ̵̡̌ͣ̑͑̽ͪ̐ͥ̒ͧͧͬ̓͌̎ͯ̚̕͟҉̬͙̤̯̪̣̜̜̺̳Ţ̘͍̞̩̭̦͓̥̞ͥͮ̐̑̿̊͢͡ ̶̨̧̩̹̥̠̙͍͖͚̣͍͙̝͖̪̟̖̯̤̐ͤ͑̆ͦ̾ͩ͛̑ͩ͊͋̽́̑̃̇ͯ͢O̸̵̠̖̥̼͈̻̜̬̞̭̞͈̯̭͆̎ͥͦ̏ͭ̎́ͦF̱̖̱̠̦̺̦̦̳͚̟͈̲̩̀̆ͩ͐̉͂̈́̍̏ͧ͗͑ͫ̚͢͡ ̶̦̖̬̠͚̦͔̠̦͕̂ͬͧ̒̀ͦ̄ͧ̂͗ͧ͟M̡̼͖̜͍̲̯͎͇͔̯͎̙͎̫͊ͩ͌ͦ͆̉ͤ͗͑̋͑̇ͥ̉́ͧ̿͂̚̕͠Y̴̨̱̯͎̹ͯ̀̈́̇̽́̈̀̆͟ ̴̛ͯͧ͛ͥ̌̚͠͏̖̞͔̤̯̲̲̙H͖̝̤̜͔̝̦͚̓́̈ͨ̀̀̚͘͝͞Ę̜͎̠͕̫̝̝̫̜̖̰͈̗̖̖͓͖̇ͨ̐ͮ̉̿̇ͧ͛͗͗ͥͯ̓ͦ̚͡ͅǍ̸ͥ̓ͯ͟҉҉̺̖̟̝̩̜̣̲̟͙͕͓̗̥͡D̶̨̆͋̈͛͐ͯ͒̔ͨͯͬͮͤ͂ͣ̽͛̚҉̴͕̻̠͇̞̙̲͙̲͕

̵̸̢̨̱̰̪̭̳̫̝̗͊͗͋̄͂̈́͑ͭͭͪ̂̚̕G̴͕̭̦̫͕̩̳̳̰̝͔̯͙̦̲̿̉̂ͤ̇̊̃ͬ̊̐͒̊̓̌ͯ̚ͅͅE̪̭̥̻̦̝̱̱͓̙̼͙͇̯̻ͧ̎ͩ̓́ͮ̒̒̃ͫͯ̒̓͛̏̈́̐͌͟͟T̢͍̼̥̼̳̮͕̘̣̦̝̗̱͈͋̒ͪ͌͐̀̏ͭ̚̕͘͞ͅ ̴̷͇͉̰̗̻͚̥̖̆͊̊̾ͣǪ̢̨͍̭͈͉̹̤͍̰̙̠̫͍̗̞̠͖̟̱ͯ̏̌͋ͧ͋ͪ̾͜ͅǓ̵̡̌ͣ̑͑̽ͪ̐ͥ̒ͧͧͬ̓͌̎ͯ̚̕͟҉̬͙̤̯̪̣̜̜̺̳Ţ̘͍̞̩̭̦͓̥̞ͥͮ̐̑̿̊͢͡ ̶̨̧̩̹̥̠̙͍͖͚̣͍͙̝͖̪̟̖̯̤̐ͤ͑̆ͦ̾ͩ͛̑ͩ͊͋̽́̑̃̇ͯ͢O̸̵̠̖̥̼͈̻̜̬̞̭̞͈̯̭͆̎ͥͦ̏ͭ̎́ͦF̱̖̱̠̦̺̦̦̳͚̟͈̲̩̀̆ͩ͐̉͂̈́̍̏ͧ͗͑ͫ̚͢͡ ̶̦̖̬̠͚̦͔̠̦͕̂ͬͧ̒̀ͦ̄ͧ̂͗ͧ͟M̡̼͖̜͍̲̯͎͇͔̯͎̙͎̫͊ͩ͌ͦ͆̉ͤ͗͑̋͑̇ͥ̉́ͧ̿͂̚̕͠Y̴̨̱̯͎̹ͯ̀̈́̇̽́̈̀̆͟ ̴̛ͯͧ͛ͥ̌̚͠͏̖̞͔̤̯̲̲̙H͖̝̤̜͔̝̦͚̓́̈ͨ̀̀̚͘͝͞Ę̜͎̠͕̫̝̝̫̜̖̰͈̗̖̖͓͖̇ͨ̐ͮ̉̿̇ͧ͛͗͗ͥͯ̓ͦ̚͡ͅǍ̸ͥ̓ͯ͟҉҉̺̖̟̝̩̜̣̲̟͙͕͓̗̥͡D̶̨̆͋̈͛͐ͯ͒̔ͨͯͬͮͤ͂ͣ̽͛̚҉̴͕̻̠͇̞̙̲͙̲͕

 

I laughed. Or cried. I’m not quite sure. A choked sob escaped my lips as I saw _blue, green, white, black--_

\-- _red._

Time rewound.

 

* * *

 

_The Third Eye._

When I awoke, those words ran through my mind. What was that? Why did I feel such dread at three simple words?

I groaned, pulling open the script to examine what I had missed. Nothing much: I apparently followed the script for the rest of the day before heading home. It was _frightening_ to know that I had blanked out like that...was that how the other girls felt all the time? Asleep, unable to control their actions?

I shivered, then pulled up the music files and began to “play” the piano. Maybe today, I’d have better luck in creating my theme.

 

I was not forging the ending I wanted.

Despite being in the club for the past few days, MC didn’t spend any time with me outside of poem sharing. I felt myself spiraling into a cold, dark oblivion of doubts and worries. What if he chose somebody? If he chose any of the three of them...I’d be sidelined. I was never mentioned in Natsuki’s true ending. I was briefly mentioned in Yuri’s. And I had stepped down entirely from the Literature Club in Sayori’s ending, allowing her to take over as president before transferring schools.

...was I really destined for nothing? Did I really have no spot in anyone’s futures, no meaning to my existence?

_No. I will not be a side character. I won’t let you._

With trembling hands, I opened Sayori’s character file.

Could I really do this? Murder somebody who had become my...friend?

I hesitated, then closed the file and threw my notebook against the wall in frustration.

_“Monika, Monika. No hesitating, now.”_

I walked across the room, picking up my notebook and flipping it open.

_The ink flows down into a dark puddle..._

—of scarlet red.

Methodically, I opened up Sayori’s file and amplified her depression again.

* * *

 

_Who are you?_

* * *

 

I tried to escape.

More than once, you know.

It never worked.

 

* * *

 

I went to the library to try to find _Portrait of Markov._

It wasn’t there. In fact, when I tried searching through the library database, I discovered that there weren’t _any_ of those books in stock. Yuri must have gotten it from a used bookshop or something.

I didn’t know why, but something inside of me felt like I _had_ to know exactly what that book was. What...what was the Third Eye?

* * *

 

_You don’t see through the Third Eye._

_I don’t see through the Third Eye._

_The Third Eye sees us._

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted to create a mod for this but was too lazy so ey, fanfic it is.
> 
> Just Monika :3
> 
> Reviews fuel the soul.  
> This has multiple chapters.


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